


between two lungs

by halloweenieroast



Series: no man could truly tame a wolf [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, F/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloweenieroast/pseuds/halloweenieroast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Yes,’ she says, and she wants to yell it, yes yes yes, you’re different, you’re the knight they sing about in songs, you’re Highgarden and you’re gentle hands and you’re flowers and you’re smiling, the antithesis of everything I’ve come to know, I trust you.</p><p>A continuation of 'someone said true love was dead (and i'm bound to fall for you)'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between two lungs

Willas is used to the presence of another in his room before he wakes - a maester, probably, maybe his brother, his mother when he was very small, baby Marg pestering him for a story or a cuddle - but then he opens his eyes and realises that no, he’s certainly not used to this vision of flame and porcelain anywhere in his proximity. He stays still, afraid that if he moves she might turn into thin air, a vision, nothing more. 

Sansa is standing by the window, one hand light on the windowsill, the other curling locks of her hair around slender fingers absently. She seems to sense his awakening, and looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she looks almost guilty, like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

‘It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?’

She nods, tries a smile. ‘You can see all of the gardens from here,’ she muses. ‘The fruit trees, and the roses. The wildflowers down by the water, too.’

Before he can reply, she starts to speak again. ‘Last night, Willas,’ she begins, and Willas smiles to himself because she remembered to use his name instead of   _my lord_. ’Thank you.’

She wants to say more, he can tell, and he thinks he wants to hear it, too, but she doesn’t really need to. He didn’t even have to hear a ‘thank you,’ really, because what he did - they did - last night took nothing on his part but a little understanding. It’s almost disturbing to him the way Sansa has been conditioned to never take understanding for granted, or kindness or gentleness. Maybe once she didn’t think twice about favours done for no reason or dwell on why the people close to her loved her, but now - now she has been taught that she is undeserving of these basic human kindnesses and she questions endlessly why anyone would spare her them. 

So he tells her. ‘Sansa,’ he smiles sadly, propping himself up on the pillows, ‘I know your time in King’s Landing wasn’t - ideal.’ She turns back to the window so he cannot see her face, letting her hair fall soft around her slim shoulders, covering the fading bruises there. He winces at his own lack of skill with words. ‘But Highgarden isn’t King’s Landing, and more importantly, I’m not Joffrey-‘

‘I prayed every night for him to die,’ Sansa says, and her voice is colder than the snow and ice of her home, indifferent and pointed. ‘I knelt in the sept and prayed to the Warrior, that my brother might have his head, to the Mother, that she might spare me and make him choke or fall. When they banned me from there - I went to the Godswood, I appealed to the Gods of my father, my family.’ Her hand becomes tight on the sill, fingers flushed red and knuckles sharp white. There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I began to ask them for ways to kill him myself.’

‘If I were in your position, I would have done the same.’

‘But you weren’t.’ The look she throws over her shoulder hits him like she’s reached out and struck him across the face.

And then, her gaze softens and her bottom lip trembles a little. She bites down on it and moves to the bed, gliding as she always does, obscenely graceful. She raises her slender hands to her face, closes her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ and her voice is almost a whisper as she sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me -‘

He shifts himself so he can reach her with one arm, softly placing his hand on her shoulder. ‘I think it’s a bout of an illness called honesty, Sansa - fatal when it comes over you at the wrong time.’

She laughs at that, perhaps finally realising that there are no Lannisters to spy on her here, and it’s a sound so beautiful he wishes he could hear it forever. He vows in that moment to make her laugh as much as possible.

* * *

To Sansa’s surprise, only Margaery really pesters her for details about the night of the bedding, the other ladies remaining wordless - only flashing her knowing smiles when she passes them. Marg, however, summons her to her solar, and the two of them sit and sew absently with the afternoon sun filtering into the room.

‘So,’ she giggles, tucking a lock of thick brown hair - Willas’ hair - behind her ear. ‘Did you find him… satisfactory?’

Sansa tugs her needle up towards herself and smiles primly. ‘Of course. He’s very comely, and kind.’

Marg dips her head, grinning. ‘What did you…?’

‘Margaery!’ Sansa exclaims. ‘Some things will remain between husband and wife.’ 

She wonders what Margaery is imagining as she laughs away, but she’s certain it’s worlds away from the reality of the situation.

* * *

Over the next weeks, Sansa flourishes. Willas wonders if she was was like this back in Winterfell, once upon a time, or if the frost ever stopped her from blooming. She does well in the company of others, a master of conversation and witticisms and words of advice. He notices an unexpected dry humour to her, when her voice drops so only he and Margaery can hear - she insists that they sit bracketing her at all events - and makes a biting observation about some lord or lady. Mayhaps she has spent too much time in the company of his grandmother. 

He sees it in the flush of her cheeks and the music in her voice, the way she is enamoured with Highgarden and the Reach. Sansa loves all things beautiful in an entirely meaningful way. She never judges by appearance, no, but she has a fine eye for aesthetics and appreciates art keenly. She often takes pleasure in sitting with the dressmakers and discussing the colours and shapes of the gowns they plan, asking the gardeners endless questions about the ways different roses breed to make new variations.

She’s still a little withdrawn, bouts of loneliness or nostalgia coming over her occasionally. On those days, she doesn’t talk much, and when she does it’s of how much something reminds her of Winterfell or her brothers or a song she used to sing. She’s slowly learning, however, that it’s alright for her to talk, and that he’s going to listen. 

* * *

‘Marg,  _please,_ you can’t-‘

Margaery’s hand slips out of Sansa’s, cool and steady as always. She smiles at Sansa fondly before making her way toward the litter. 

‘Don’t worry yourself, Sansa. Nothing’s going to happen to me.’ 

Garlan, who has become a dear brother to Sansa, looks over his shoulder at her and grins. ‘I’ll make sure of that,’ he promises, and then Margaery is in the litter and the mounts are kicked into motion.

Sansa watches until they all become little dots on the horizon. She doesn’t know when she’ll see Marg again. She doesn’t know  _if_ she’ll see Marg again. Willas rests one hand on her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly. 

‘You really shouldn’t fret, Sansa. Knowing Olenna, they’ve got some measures of protection for Marg we don’t dare imagine.’

Sansa swipes at her eye with the back of her hand. ‘She can’t marry him. He’s a monster.’ She shudders, imagining Margaery suffering the way she did. The idea of her dear good-sister with bruises and blood covering her arms, back, legs - she could cry just at the thought of it, if she wasn’t sure she had cried herself out of tears the night before she left. She had spent that night in Margaery’s chambers with her, sobbing until her throat burned and her eyes were swollen, but Margaery hadn’t so much as frowned. 

‘I should be the one comforting  _you,’_ Sansa had whispered. Marg had smiled and held her closer to her chest.

‘What are the Tyrell words, Sansa?’

‘Growing strong.’

‘And do you know what that means?’ She had tilted Sansa’s chin up, staring straight into her eyes. ‘You can take a Tyrell from were they first grew, but as soon as you place them on stable ground, they adapt, hold on, and they grow back, stronger for the experience. We might have taken a rose sigil for its beauty, but us Tyrells are tough as weeds and twice as cunning.’

Her words had cheered Sansa for a while, but when morning came she felt like holding onto her and never letting her go, not least into the hands of Joffrey. She feels a twinge of guilt for not doing so, though she knows it’s ridiculous. 

‘She’ll figure something out,’ Willas says, though Sansa knows he’s just as scared for his baby sister.

She can only pray that he’s right.

* * *

The morning the raven arrives, Highgarden is full of whispers before Willas even has time to open the letter. He was woken by it, the wretched thing. As soon as he sees the dark green flower sealing the parchment, he prays his father isn’t delivering him bad news of any kind. The writing is much neater than his father's, and he decides that it must be Olenna using his seal. It wouldn’t surprise him if she deemed his father too dull to articulate the goings-on of King’s Landing.

He nearly stops breathing as soon as his eyes fall on the first sentence.

 _King Joffrey is dead_.

* * *

‘You summoned me, Willas?’

Sansa’s almost embarrassed, hair tangled from a fitful night, still in her bed silks - such was the urgency of her summoning, apparently. Willas holds a piece of parchment out to her, grinning. 

‘Read it,’ he urges, and she almost laughs at his enthusiasm. ‘Close the door behind you, though - it won’t do to have others hear the discussion we’ll no doubt have over this.’

She raises an eyebrow at him, biting back a smile. She can’t recall seeing him this excited in recent memory. She unfolds the parchment carefully and scans it quickly.

And then, she reads it again to make sure she hasn’t mistaken it. A third time, and she’s about to check it a fourth when Willas grabs her wrist. 

‘He’s gone, Sansa. He can’t hurt Marg.’

Sansa’s head is spinning and she feels as if she might be sick, so she sits on the edge of the bed and tries to work her thoughts into a coherent sentence. ‘The Lannisters - Cersei will be distraught, she’s going to blame anyone she can. They’ll hurt her, I know they will. I lived under their power for so  _long,_ Willas-‘

He sits beside her, touches her shoulder gently. ‘Read the rest of the letter,’ he urges.  

 _Cersei has accused her brother, the Imp, of the murder,_ she reads.  _Accusations have also surfaced about Margaery - they claim she is impure and lost her maidenhead before marriage to Joffrey, despite her claims otherwise._ She looks up at Willas. ‘Why did Margaery claim to be virginal? Her marriage to Renly-‘

Willas snorts. ‘Renly was more interested in having the Knight of Flowers to warm his bed than his actual wife.’

Sansa blinks at him, incredulous.  _Oh,_ she thinks.  _Even if he hadn’t taken his vows…_ She shakes her head at herself. It’s been a long time since her old wishes to marry Loras surfaced, and besides, why would she want to anymore? She doesn’t want Willas to see the blush creeping up her cheeks so she lowers her head again to read.

 _I have bargained with Cersei for what is best for Margaery. As long as she accepts the claims as true without protest, admittedly making it hard to find a husband, she is permitted to return home to King’s Landing, not bound by marriage to the throne_.

Sansa raises her eyes to Willas again. ‘She’s free,’ and she’s happier than she’s been in a long time but it’s a happiness edged with envy.  _What I would have given to escape the hands of King’s Landing so soon.._.

Willas takes her hands in his. ‘She’ll never look on that wretched city again as long as she lives.’ He leans over and kisses her forehead softly. ‘Neither will you, sweet Sansa. I promise.’

* * *

She reaches up and takes his face in her cool, cool hands, pulls it down and then his lips are on hers and he feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest it’s beating so  fast and - 

She pulls away, smiles shyly. ‘Was that- the first time we’ve kissed like  _that_ since the wedding?’

He nods weakly, swallowing. ‘Yes,’ is all he can manage.

‘Willas, I don’t know  _what_ I was thinking,’ but she’s giggling and curling her fingers in her hair, giving him a fine chance to take in how unbearably attractive she is. She meets his eyes and there’s a bold look about her suddenly, like she’s discovering something entirely new. ‘Would you mind if I tried it again?’

This time all he can say is, ‘no,’ and he feels so stupid but it doesn’t matter because she reaches for his face again, tips of her fingers brushing his hair lightly, and she kisses him. Her embrace is feather-light, one of her hands ghosting along his arm and settling at his waist, the other pulling him ever so subtly closer to her. 

He never pictured it this way, if he’s perfectly honest with himself, but he always knew that this marriage was going to be better if Sansa moved it along on her terms. The past years have been such a tumultuous hurry for her with so little of her own decisions factoring in, and he knows that she’s reveling in her new freedom, learning to enjoy the luxury of making her own choices. 

‘Willas,’ she breathes against his lips, ‘I’ve thought about this happening.’

‘Kissing?’

‘More,’ she whispers, and he feels so lightheaded he might faint. ‘I know - our first night together wasn’t good,’ and there’s something suddenly shy about her.

‘Through no fault of your own,’ he corrects, running his thumb over her cheek lightly. 

‘But I was thinking about  _Joffrey_  that night, and now I know he can’t - won’t ever…’ She trails off, though he can tell where she’s heading. She lowers her hands to thumb the edge of her nightdress absentmindedly, worrying her lip before continuing. ‘Joff used to talk of how he’d bed me, and I worried you’d do the same,’ she confesses. ‘But you’re so unlike him-‘

‘I would never.’ It’s true, and if those words had come from any other girl but Sansa he might have been insulted by the very comparison - but his heart goes out to her because he just  _knows_ the little bastard went to lengths to convince her that all men would treat her the same as he did.

Sansa blushes a bright red again and looks up to meet his eyes, a smile tugging on the edges of her lips. ‘I thought that if Joffrey was so bad and you were so good, that if Joffrey’s bedding was bound to be terrible, yours was bound to be-‘

She stops herself and touches his hand with her own, lacing her fingers with his. She takes it in both of her hands and runs her fingertips over the ridges of his knuckles. He surpresses a shudder. ‘I never wanted to ask. He once told me that only sluts  _asked_ their lovers, so I -‘ _  
_

His throat is suddenly dry. ‘Ask me anything,’ he implores. ’As long as _you_ want it-‘

She smiles wryly, continuing as if he never spoke. ‘When I'm by myself at night…’

* * *

Sansa doesn’t  _quite_ know what she’s doing,

( _what you do to yourself_ , she thinks,  _at night when you can’t sleep because thoughts of Willas plague you_ )

all she knows is that she’s enjoying it very much and by the half-dazed look on Willas’ face, so is he. With both of her hands firmly holding one of his, she parts her legs slightly and guides it between them so, through the thin fabrics of her smallclothes and nightshift, she can  _feel_ him, so familiar yet alien. His hand is so much bigger than hers, long fingers calloused by writing and work, shifting between her legs as he cups her softly. She pushes into his touch slightly, because she knows that he’s bound to be reluctant after the last time they were in the same bed.

‘You do this? To yourself?’ He sounds fascinated but duly incredulous. She nods, wondering if he thinks her brazen or sinful.

* * *

Sansa is, in all her blushing, softly smiling wonder, the most beautiful creature he has ever seen, heard, felt.

* * *

‘But I - I move my hand,’ she offers, ‘and I think.’

She’s caught off guard by Willas’ initiative when he moves his hand without her guidance, and the breath is knocked out of her lungs as he rubs his palm against just  _there_ and presses two long fingers down further between her legs. He tilts his head, catches the corner of her mouth in a kiss and murmurs hot against her skin.

‘What do you think about?’

Sansa reaches blindly for his neck, squeezes her eyes shut as she urges his lips toward her jaw, throat. ‘You,’ she admits. ‘This.’

‘I have an idea,’ he whispers, ‘if you’ll trust me.’

‘Yes,’ she says, and she wants to yell it,  _yes yes yes, you’re different, you’re the knight they sing about in songs, you’re Highgarden and you’re gentle hands and you’re flowers and you’re smiling, the antithesis of everything I’ve come to know, I trust you,_ but ‘yes,’ is what comes out of her mouth because she’s trying to catch her breath and stifle a moan all at once and eloquent speech has long left her.

He pushes himself back onto the bed and lies down, beckoning her with a smile. ‘I’m not sure if you’ll enjoy this as much as I undoubtedly will,’ he confesses, ‘so I want you to speak up. You do have such a lovely voice, after all.’

Sansa is curious, more than anything, so she lets herself be guided by his strong hands as he helps her shift one leg over him so she kneels suspended over his torso. He runs his hands up the backs of her legs slowly but firmly and she suddenly feels as if she’s boneless, placing her hands on the headboard for support. He tugs at the edge of her night silk wordlessly, so she takes the hint and pulls it over her head, throwing it aside. Willas tips his head back and  _groans_ at the sight of her, fingertips digging into the backs of her thighs. 

'Gods, you're beautiful,' he sighs, and Sansa finds herself, for a delicious moment, believing him. _  
_

* * *

'We have to come out eventually,' she laughs, absentmindedly tracing her fingertips in lazy, continuous circles on his palm. 

'No, we don't. 'Out' is comprised mainly of politics, problems and headaches. 'In' is  _you._ ' _  
_

Sansa blushes, and he wonders how she can be so coy when minutes ago his mouth was between her thighs, but since he met her she's been a curious little thing to him and he supposes that won't ever change. He likes it that way, really. It's fascinating. He feels like he's learning about her all the time and won't stop for a while. (He told her this once and she laughed, said, 'Willas, do you _ever_ stop thinking about learning?') _  
_

She stands despite his protests, pulls on her smallclothes and fetches the nightdress from where it lays crumpled beside them. 'Willas,' she tuts, although she can't hide her smile, 'you have responsibilities.'

'I have a duty to my wife,' he points out, stretching both arms above his head. The words seem unbelievably  _true_ suddenly. Before all this - he loved her, yes, he was sure of that the moment he laid eyes on her, but he always felt less like a husband and more like a desperate suitor, some smallfolk boy chasing a queen. 

Sansa tugs the dress down and meanders to the windowsill, leaning out and looking over Highgarden. She seems so peaceful, lost in her own world. 

'You'll own that one day. With me.'

She smiles softly. 'You'll be Lord of Highgarden, High Marshal of the Reach, Warden of the South. Quite extensive.'

He chuckles, rolls onto his side and props himself up on one arm. 'I used to fancy being a knight.'

'Ser Willas the Willful.'

'Ser Willas the Wretched,' he laughs. 'Ser Willas the Weak.'

'Hush,' she smiles, drawing the curtains shut. 'You're only wretched when you stay in that study of yours all day.'

'I thought  _you_ were the one insisting that I had responsibilities.'

' _And_ when you argue with me.'

* * *

Willas hands her the letter one morning after breakfast. 

'I thought you might be interested,' he says casually, pouring sweet apple tea into both of their cups. 

Sansa glances down to the end of the letter before anything else, and when she sees  _sincerely, Margaery_ written there, she smiles broadly. The letter is upfront in typical Margaery style, and when she finishes reading it she can barely contain herself.

'She's so  _close,_ Willas. And she'll surely find a husband on her return. The people of the Reach adore her, surely no one will believe the Lannisters' claims?'

'Let's hope not,' Willas shrugs, taking a sip of tea. 'You know, if it weren't for Marg, we might not be married.'

'Really?' Sansa shudders at the thought of marriages she could have faced if she hadn't been allowed to Highgarden. A Lannister, most likely. Maybe even Joffrey if he hadn't grown bored of her soon enough. She still sometimes feels overwhelmed with it, the relief that he didn't marry her and that he died before Marg could experience the worst of his cruelty, the way he lashed out when he was tired of acting chivalrous. She thanks every God she can think of, ones she knows and ones she doesn't, for the nights she spends in Willas' bed, clothed and content to just be held for a while.

'The little scheming thing always liked playing matchmaker,' he says fondly. 'She decided I needed a wife, and, simultaneously, that  _you_ needed a husband who wasn't a Lannister. She mentioned it once in front of my dear grandmother, and suddenly neither of them would rest until they saw us united.'

'It still sometimes feels odd to say 'Sansa Tyrell',' she admits. After just learning that yes, she  _is_ a Stark, having the name feel right, embracing having winter and frost and Gods of Old in her bones, the change is jarring to say the least.

'You're always a Stark,' he replies. She blinks at him, surprised, and he just smiles. 'I think it'd take more than a marriage to change that.'

**Author's Note:**

> ugh thank you so much to the amazing people who urged me to continue this, i love you and your comments
> 
> oh and for reference: no penetrative sex was had in that one scene? willas just gave sansa the lord's kiss, aha. i don't think i made that particularly clear but didn't want to go out of the way and say, 'NO DICK WAS HAD THAT DAY' but i think its important to point that out shh i don't know why. Anyway ty for reading as always ❤


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